


Jack of Hearts; the Lionheart, the Witch and the Horcrux

by nayad-with-a-pen (ravenditefairylights)



Series: House of Cards [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Mentions of Pregnancy, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Regulus Black Lives, Severus Snape Bashing, Slytherin Sirius Black, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Welsh Remus Lupin, adorable baby Harry, sirius and regulus hunt for horcruxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 05:19:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21368800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenditefairylights/pseuds/nayad-with-a-pen
Summary: Here Sirius was, taking things one step at a time, making sure the Dark Lord was well and truly dead. Three horcruxes down, four more to go. Yeah, not really how he wanted to spend his weekend either, but what can you do when a homicidal, highly insane and narcissistic Dark Lord makes his own soul into an insurance policy for immortality?"Come on, Reg. We have a ring to set on fire, and I have the perfect plan.""If it's fiendfyre again—""No," Sirius said. A lull and then—"It's dark fire.""Right," Regulus said dryly. "Because the protego diabolica is so much better."...As the end of the year 1981 approaches, and the Wizarding World celebrates the defeat of the Dark Lord and the end of his rein of terror, two brothers know that things are not as simple as they seem. It's the beginning of a new era for Wizarding Britain, and with two weddings on the horizon, two brothers must work together to ensure that the days of peace will stay like this for a long time.It's not an easy quest they have set on, but who better to do it than two enstranged brothers who haven't seen each other for years? After all, what else could go wrong?
Relationships: Marlene McKinnon/Dorcas Meadowes, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin/Original Female Character(s)
Series: House of Cards [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1431631
Comments: 12
Kudos: 139





	Jack of Hearts; the Lionheart, the Witch and the Horcrux

**THE FOOL**

** _22_ ** ** _nd _ ** ** _of November 1981, Blackpool, the Black Manor_ **

Persephone Greengrass liked to think that even this, that had caused her such emotion turmoil over the brief course of the last few weeks, officially started the way most things did; with a knock on a door.

The 3-acres estate in Blackpool, where the Lord and Lady of the House of Black usually resided, was quiet if not for the lights on the windows, signaling shows of life. The large, sycamore brown door of the mansion did nothing to calm Persephone's nerves. Next to her, Arcelia tried for a reassuring touch on the shoulder, but it did not help much.

It could be considered bold; the sister of the men who tortured the owner of the house to show up at her front door, unannounced, but the future Lady Black was nothing if not intelligent, and Persephone knew she wouldn't blame them. Arcelia was no more responsible for her brothers' actions than Persephone was for her fiancé's.

Anxiety, of course, did not care about such trivial things like logic; it reveled in irrationality.

Sirius Black himself opened the door, which she wasn't expecting; she assumed she'd be seeing the house elf. He didn't look any different than he had at his engagement party; all traces of his brief stay in Azkaban long gone. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, and for a moment simply observed them. With the piercing gaze of his silver eyes trained on her, Persephone was reminded of the old legend about the Black family.

"Persephone," he said, surprise colouring his voice. "Arcelia. We weren't expecting you."

"It was an impulsive decision to come here," Persephone admitted, glad her voice did not betray any of the anxiety she was feeling. She smoothed down her black robes self-consciously and tried for a smile. "May we come in?"

"Yes," Sirius seemed to shake himself out of something. "Yes, of course. Please, it's freezing outside. You're just in time—Remus just put the kettle on."

"I feel I must apologize for not alerting you of our visit in advance," Persephone said as Sirius guided them to the living room—she barely glanced at the large corridors, decorated with items from all over the world, it was nothing she didn't expect to see in the manor. "I hope we are not inconveniencing you—it's just that this subject is rather important to me."

"Of course," Sirius said smoothly, offering them each a seat at the green-velvet sofas. When everything else failed, the Black family never disappointed in their aesthetic. "We're happy to have you, even uninvited."

His words held no malice, or insult, like most of his relatives would have responded with, and Persephone was once more reminded of how different Sirius Black was from the rest of his family—in that aspect. He waved a hand in the air and somewhere further inside the house a bell chimed, but Sirius merely smiled and sat down—lounged, really, with movements that betrayed nothing but effortless aristocratic grace—in one of the armchairs, facing them.

"I must apologize," Arcelia said in the lapse of silence. "For my brothers' atrocious behaviour. It is not, I know, my fault, but I feel terribly responsible for it all the same."

"You must not," a new voice said from the doorway. Clara, it seemed, had managed to arrive without making any sound; perhaps for the sole purpose of dramatically interjecting herself into the conversation. It was very representative of the Black family as a whole, and Persephone wouldn't put it past her; if it was true, she would fit right in with her in-laws—not that surviving Walburga Black was an easy feat. "It was a horrible thing to have to live through, but in no way your fault."

"Admittedly, Rabastan and Rodolphus have always been idiotic, but I couldn't imagine them doing such a thing," Arcelia said. Her long golden earrings jingled when she shook her head.

"They  _ were _ Death Eaters," Sirius pointed out, but with no malice.

"Convicted ones," Arcelia agreed with a nod. A curl of her ebony black hair tumbled out of her braid, falling to frame her face, but she ignored it. "And yet, weeks after their trial that I attended—in which they  _ confessed _ —I still find it hard to believe."

"You just have to come to terms with it," Persephone said, putting her own blonde hair behind her ear. "I know I have. It is rather horrifying to find out the man you were going to marry was a whole different person than who you thought he was."

"It must be hard," Clara said gently. "I couldn't imagine doing that myself. Pandora has mentioned how hard this has been on all of you."

"My parents, most of all," Persephone said. "They were crushed their future son-in-law managed to stain our reputation so terribly, and you know Pandora—my sister always sees the best in people—she blames herself for not noticing Rabastan's true nature sooner."

"Nonsense," Clara said. "The fault is Rabastan's alone. He knew full well what he was doing and what he was getting himself into."

"Well," Arcelia winced. "Not  _ always _ . See, because of my brother's stupidity and its consequences, Persephone has found herself stuck in a rather compromising situation."

"It appears that a problem has been developed," Persephone added. Clara and Sirius did not interrupt. She let the silence stretch out long enough to gather her courage before she confessed; "I'm pregnant. With Rabastan's baby."

"Oh, but that's—" Clara exclaimed excitedly, but caught herself. "I mean, I hope that this is good news for you?"

"It is," Persephone smiled and instinctively laid a hand on her stomach. "But it's also inconvenient news."

"Our congratulations," Sirius said honestly, smiling warmly. "However, I don't understand how we might be able to help."

"When she found out, a few weeks ago, Persephone informed me of the predicament immediately," Arcelia said. "We have yet to tell my parents, but we thought it best we come and see you first."

Sirius raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Me? What for?"

"Rabastan is in Azkaban now," Persephone said bitterly. "He will not be coming back. However, my child will quite probably be the heir of the Lestrange family, so I thought it wise to raise the baby as such."

"Ah," Sirius nodded in understanding.

"You see, my oldest brother Rodolphus, was the heir, and since his imprisonment, all the inheritance and estates have been seized by his wife's house—your house—as retribution for the mistreatment of Clara," Arcelia pointed out; nothing they wouldn't remember, since Sirius had made that transaction himself, and an experience like that was very hard to forget. "As it should be done, of course, but Persephone and I were hoping you could give us back, at least one of the estates, and some freedom to operate the vault."

"Of course he will!" Clara said, before Sirius could say anything. "It's only fair. You and your baby have done nothing wrong."

Persephone smiled, breathing a sigh of relief despite herself. "Thank you."

"Of course," Sirius said. "Like Clara said it's only fair. You have a specific estate in mind, I suppose?"

Persephone laughed. "The one in France, actually. It's my favourite."

"Excellent choice!" Sirius smirked, laying back and throwing an arm around Clara's shoulders. "I do hope you'll invite us to the baby shower though."

"Depends on how useful your gifts will be," Arcelia said wryly, and they laughed.

"Do you have names yet?" Clara asked, smiling widely through her excitement. "I do love picking names."

"Well, if it's a boy, Neptune, after his grandfather," Persephone said. "And if it's a girl, I'll call her Astra—Rabastan did always say he wanted his mother's name to continue—and it's only fair Arcelia be her middle name." She looked over at the girl in question with a smile. "You have been a great help, Lia, I'm most grateful."

"As if I would miss a chance with my future niece or nephew!" Arcelia exclaimed. "You know I  _ love _ babies. They're so adorable."

"Speaking of which," Persephone looked around the empty aristocratic living room, "where is the Harry Potter I've heard so much about?"

"I'm afraid it's currently nap time," Clara chuckled. "But you must come over for tea tomorrow, I'm sure he'll be awake. And we should go baby shopping—I have been looking for an excuse!"

"It's settled then!" Arcelia said decisively. "And we should take Pandora with us."

"Can I opt out?" Sirius asked. "I mean, I'd participate but—"

"Only if you do the dishes," Clara grinned.

Sirius grinned back. "Anything you want." There was a long pause, before Sirius frowned. "What happened to Remus and the tea anyway?"

* * *

**THE MAGICIAN**

** _23_ ** ** _rd _ ** ** _of November 1981, the Black Market, south of the Edinburgh entrance_ **

The crystal ball had been foggy all week, but the moment Jemina Ollivander put her hands on it this morning, everything cleared.

It was, ironically, Sirius' fault.

Sirius hadn't been back to the Black Market since before he run away, but today it seemed he had decided to pay his family's shop a visit. Alphard wasn't here—Jemina knew because he came to tell her when he left for America—and no doubt Sirius was aware of that as well, which meant he was going out of his way to visit Cassiopeia.

No, not his aunt… Jemina frowned at the crystal ball. Alright, so he was looking for something. She failed to see what any if it had to do with her—

Ah. Well. Horcruxes. Sirius knew about the Dark Lord then. Lovely. Someone had to put a stop to that bastard; the first time Jemina Saw him, she screamed (and she did not do that lightly). His soul was in pieces, so much he was barely a man at all anymore. She had been so shocked—she wasn't even supposed to come across him at all—that she went and blurted it all out, which immediately put her in the Dark Lord's hit books. Not exactly somewhere she wanted to be.

Getting rid of him, that she could help with. Only to make sure Sirius went to her instead of Cassiopeia—if anyone in the neighborhood caught whiff that Sirius Black was back, the speculations would run wild. Better do that in its own time.

Jemina hurried out of her own shop—Giovanni said he'd redecorated, and she would have complimented him if she could see the changes—and started in the direction where Sirius' signature was. It wasn't until the third person scrambled out of her way that she realized she ought to have put the dark cloth over her eyes, to hide the scars, before she went out.

Oh well. It wasn't like they didn't  _ know _ who she was—Jemina was, without contest, the best Seer in all the Black Market—which, come to think of it, was a big feat; the Market stretched to every corner of the world. And anyhow, even if they didn't know it was her, it wasn't a secret that the Clairvoyant had holes where her eyes should be.

Stumbling over someone whose magic wasn't strong enough for her to See, Jemina turned the corner and found him immediately. His magic was loud and bright, pulsing over everyone else's effortlessly and shining like a beacon; he wasn't trying to hide his presence then.

"Sirius!" she called, hurrying towards him. "I heard you were looking for something."

* * *

**THE HIGH-PRIESTESS**

_ 23 _ _ rd _ _ of November, 1981 _

_ Elva darling, _

_ I cannot begin to apologize enough for taking so long to reply to you. I know it's not an excuse, but there has been so much to do in preparation for the wedding that I feel as if I can barely stay on top of everything with my sanity intact. I'm afraid we might not have everything ready in time. (Both Mrs. Blacks are so specific about everything! It is driving me mad, Elva!) It feels like I've barely seen you at all since Prosper's funeral—we missed you at Ascella's baby shower. Hopefully you will manage to stay a few days when you come to my wedding. _

_ I must start by saying that Arcelia Lestrange visited us, and too late it reminded me of these rumours circling around Witch Weekly, regarding your dear brother. Our liberal Fenton with a Lestrange? Now, this is a story I simply  _ must _ hear. Ascella wagers we should expect an even newer addition (really, did she send you those photos of her son? Polaris is positively adorable!) to the Selwyn family tree this next year. I cannot believe Fenton told Crater and not me! I thought  _ I _ was his favourite cousin! _

_ The stress is getting to me. With all the wedding stuff, the preparations for Snape's upcoming trial and picking from a variety of charges I want to make against Dumbledore, I barely get any sleep, and it's become obvious. Just yesterday I snapped at Remus rather unfairly, over something so trivial, and then broke down sobbing. Both Sirius and Remus—bless them, my moon and stars—have tried to ease my plate, and I'm so thankful, but the success was minimal. Xenophilius suggests I need a holiday; I told him I have not one, but two honeymoons to look forward to. We decided to visit Venice first, and then Greece; I told Sirius it's not the season for the Mediterranean, but he insists we can go there in the summer as well. (I'm not about to disagree with that.) _

_ The Black Manor in Blackpool is an amazing place, and I have made myself quite at home here. It's fortunate magic exists, because I cannot see myself cleaning this place otherwise; the estate is huge, Elva. Bigger than father's house in Upper Flagley, and there are few things larger than that. _

_ Sirius set one of the living rooms on fire today. Admittedly it was rather important that the locket and cup he burned be destroyed, but I would rather he had made less of a mess. It is partly my fault—I distracted him, and momentarily he lost control of his fiendfyre. The dragon was very impressive besides; but all this does nothing to help my psyche.  _

_ I am sending you some of Emmeline's ideas for the wedding themes—I would greatly appreciate your opinion, because I simply cannot choose between them. _

_ P. S.: Did you hear about the Rosiers? Regulus will testify on Evan's trial next week; I think it's very likely he gets a pardon since he was a minor when he took the Mark. To tell you the truth, I don't expect Jacques to make it out without at least a few years, but Antoinette Rosier surprised me in more ways than once. _

_ All my love, dear cousin, _

_ Clara _

* * *

**THE EMPRESS AND THE EMPEROR**

HERMES & CO DELIVERY SERVICES, the authentic greek delivery service; by_ 'Olympus_ _L.td.'_

_ "from your house to the other end of the world!" _

Sender Address: England, Southampton, the Vega Manor ;  _ Marquess Malfoy _

Receiver Address: England, Blackpool, the Black Manor ;  _ Lord Black _

Date of Arrival: 24 th of November,  _ 1981 _

Signature of the sender: Narcissa Malfoy

Signature of the receiver: Sirius Black

_ "I send you the T.R. (m) Diary to do with it as you please. I would have sent B. poison, but Lucius protested against the fee. Flames never disappoint. Best of luck. xxx  _

**_'possumus_** **_demus existo melior'_**

_ P.S.: Draco loved the broom. Tell Andy she needs not disguise her presents next time, they will be m welcome." _

* * *

**THE HIEROPHANT**

** _24_ ** ** _th _ ** ** _of November 1981, Dublin, Howth, the House of Mercy_ **

Destroying the diary had been easy enough. Cleansing it with holy fire until there was nothing left of it; Sirius had actually enjoyed that part. It was the next steps that posed a problem.

He wasn't looking forward to all the research he had to do to find Rowena Ravenclaw's lost diadem—turns out Regulus' hunch had paid off, who knew—and this early on, he tried not to think about the situation Harry was in at the moment.

At least Clara would help with the research; she already knew most of this stuff, but she'd sent him to get the books from her father's library anyway—she wanted to be certain. One hundred percent. Sirius could relate. This horcrux business was nasty and he made conscious efforts not to think how horrific, but after finding out what all the horcruxes were, Sirius couldn't keep his thoughts off Harry for too long.

He wanted to panic, but panic would help no one, least of all Harry. It'd probably—scratch that,  _ definitely _ —make him upset. So here Sirius was, taking things one step at a time, making sure the Dark Lord was well and truly dead; one fire at a time. In a morbid sort of a way, it was cathartic.

Three horcruxes down, four more to go.

Yeah, not really how he wanted to spend his weekend either, but what can you do when a homicidal, highly insane and narcissistic Dark Lord makes his own soul into an insurance policy for immortality? Honestly, he envied Remus who'd opted out of the whole thing, declaring himself as Harry's personal babysitter. He wasn't wrong in doing so; Sirius and Regulus could deal with this on their own—that was a lie, they had lots of help—and loathe as he was to admit it, someone needed to keep an eye on Harry, for his safety as much anyone else's.

But it wouldn't be for long. They'd fix this. They just had to find the lost damn diadem first.

Where were those candles aunt Lucretia used for her séances anyway?

* * *

**THE LOVERS**

** _25_ ** ** _th_ ** ** _ of November 1981, Blackpool, the Black Manor_ **

Sam Dearborn was late. He knew he was. He had been late for his own cousin's funeral, but Egypt was among the countries who closed their borders to fend off possible fugitives coming—Death Eaters looking to save their skin now that Voldemort was dead—and they hadn't been allowed to leave the country. He hoped James would forgive him for missing it.

Sam was just glad to be able to come back to London. Egypt was nice, and Adhara loved it, but there was nothing quite like home.

The Black Manor in Blackpool, that Sirius, Remus and Clara had settled in, was just like grandmother Dorea had described; down to the persian rugs and the chi vases, the medieval tapestries and the centuries old furniture. It was, objectively, quite beautiful, although Sam would never live in it himself. Mia was quite impressed—but then again, there weren't many things with which his six-year-old daughter  _ wasn't _ impressed with.

"Well, I do hope she finds it." Sam tuned into the conversation in time to hear what Clara was saying. "It would be a breathtaking discovery."

"It's very important for Rania," Adhara said, reaching to the coffee table for a cup of tea. "But enough of that. We are not here to talk about my sister."

"Merlin forbid," Sirius muttered, and Adhara sent him a dirty look. Sirius, in personal fashion, grinned at her.

"How is your contract with that business coming along?" Clara asked, elbowing Sirius in the ribs not so discreetly. He groaned and rubbed his side, looking wounded; for his pride more than anything else. Sam met Remus' eyes and they both snorted.

"Fantastic," Adhara said, sounding pleased, sending him an exasperated and disapproving look to let him know he had been caught, and it wasn't appreciated. "The building we're supposed to create will be a skyscraper—for New York, obviously—and it promises to be amazing."

"Mummy," Mia said, coming towards them and grabbing hold of Adhara's skirts. Sam looked back to the corner she had been playing with little Harry—he looked so much like James that Sam's heart ached to see him—who was chewing on a toy train, looking at them curiously. "I'm hungry."

"Are you?" Clara asked kindly, smiling down at Mia warmly. Mia tentatively smiled back. Her red robes were not as much of a contrast against her olive skin as one would have expected, her brown hair pulled up in two pigtails that highlighted the roundness of her baby face and the molten gold in her eyes. "Do you want a piece of cake?"

Mia nodded eagerly, and accepted the plate Clara gave her with grabby hands, stuffing her face with the lemon cake as soon as it was within reach. She frowned suddenly though, and turned back to Harry. "Does Harry want some?" She asked Clara with big eyes.

"Why don't you go ask him, cariad?" Remus proposed with a warm smile, and Mia nodded solemnly, running back to Harry; focused on the task at hand.

"Harry," she said, effectively gaining the toddlers attention. "Cake," she told him, holding the plate out. Harry made a delighted sound and reached for it, replacing the train toy between his lips with something actually edible.

Sam smiled.

* * *

**THE CHARIOT**

CLARA'S WEDDING'S LIST OF THINGS THAT NEED DOING (all together say  _ thank you ms. Emmeline Vance _ )

  * date_:_ **_10th of December 1981_**

_ (10/12/1541, Thomas Culpeper and Francis Dereham were executed for having affairs with Catherine Howard, Queen of England and wife of Henry VIII; good job, lads) _

  * _place: the BLACKS' Summer Point mansion at Blakeley _

_ (why on magic are we having a wedding in the middle of December at a summer house is beyond me) _

  * list of guests; need to ask Clara for it (Zabinis?)

_ (anybody know who Jemma Weasley is supposed to be? I don't) _

  * decoration flowers; podium: clematis, bluestars and morning glories (mrs. L. Prewett) - entrance: Asterope insists on white roses, absolutely _not_; forget-me-nots and orchids (the YELLOW ones) - bouquet: I still think it should be amaryllis and not gardenias; Rowena says CORNFLOWERS but that's too much blue - chairs and tables: hydrangeas _(I give them a six out of ten, magic properties be damned, grandma) _\- bride's hair: **HIMALAYAN BLUE POPPIES** this is non-negotiable
  * ribbons: silver and black (but mostly silver)

_ (where are we putting the ribbons anyway? on the trees??) _

  * still need to buy the wedding robes - **26th** IS ROBES SHOPPING DAY, PREPARE THYSELVES
  * cakes and foods???

_ (I asked who has the catering, Fenton! It's not that hard! How should  _ I _ know? Well, check the register again!) _

  * maid of honour:_(obviously me—shut up, Frank)_ Emmeline Vance - bridesmaids: still need that list; Marlene McKinnon, Pandora Greengrass, Livia Parkinson, Elva Selwyn, Asterope Rowle_?_, the unknown X and whoever Jemina is 

_ (Is she one of Sirius' mates? Regulus? Regulus! I asked you something,  _ that's _ what!) _

  * best man: Remus Lupin - groomsmen: I have no idea; ask Sirius

_ (don't tell me you couldn't have done that yourself, Regulus) _

  * check the rehearsal dates (5/11 maybe?)
  * make sure the guests don't kill each other

_ (Altair's in charge of that, right?) _

  * _(who was the photographer again??)_

  * MARRIAGE LICENSE

_ (am i forgetting anything?) _

_ (actually, no, don't answer that) _

* * *

**STRENGTH**

** _26_ ** ** _th _ ** ** _of November 1981, London, Knockturn Alley, Borkin and Burke's_ **

Livia Parkinson looked up as the doorbell for  _ Borkin and Burke's _ rung out, and then dropped the fake smile from her face once she saw who the newcomer was.

"Well, well,  _ well _ , if it's not the infamous Black Brothers," she said, raising an eyebrow at their approach. Sirius grinned, hair ruffled and dressed all in muggle clothes—ripped jeans and combat boots and a leather jacket. Next to him, Regulus nodded his greetings; face flat and in casual wizard robes. Their relation, despite the clothing that begged otherwise, was clear in the high of their cheekbones, the storm in their eyes and the ink on their hair. There were subtle differences—the shade of the eyes, the complexion, one nose that was longer than the next—but the most fundamental of differences lied in their character.

"Hey, Livs," Sirius said, still grinning. "What's up?"

Livia rolled her eyes, and fought back her smile. "So, what can I do for you, boys?"

"Reg and I were wondering—" Sirius started.

"—nothing good ever comes out of that—" Livia said, making Sirius smirk wider and Regulus snort; probably in agreement.

"—and we wanted to know if we could get some details on someone who worked here… um, twenty years ago?" Sirius asked, turning to Regulus for confirmation.

"Give or take a few years," Regulus nodded.

"There's this thing called confidentiality, lads," Livia said, leaning both elbows on the counter. The shop was pretty tidy—mostly because she'd gotten bored yesterday and started thinking about Evelyn again, and that only ever ended with her sobbing in the back room, so she had to do something to make the thoughts shut up. When Benjamin got back, they would have to stash some things in the back closet now that the new legislation for magical items had come out, marking a fifth of their products more illegal than they were before.

"Does confidentiality count if he's dead?" Sirius asked again. Livia bit her lip and pretended to think about it. 

"No."

Sirius grinned. "Can we get that information then?"

"I might get fired for that," Livia said simply, looking at them expectantly.

"You won't," Sirius said, apparently not getting the memo. "Benjamin likes me."

Livia didn't blink. "He likes me better. That's not what I said."

Sirius frowned, trying to pinpoint his mistake, when Regulus sighed defeatedly; somehow managing to channel a fifty-year-old professor in a class full of fifteen-year-olds that were too stupid for their own good and that of humanity. He pinched his nose, looked at Sirius in clear disappointment, and then turned back to her.

"What do you want?" he asked, and Livia smirked.

"I need a couple of vials of haemotoxic venom," she said. "Five, maybe ten."

"Want a whole boomslang snake whilst we're on it?" Sirius asked dryly, but didn't disagree. "Just so you know, this is going to cost me a fortune, and I know you're taking advantage of my pure, kind heart—" Regulus snorted — "but we really need that address. I know a bloke who can get that. Next week."

"Deal," Livia rewarded him with her sharpest smile. "What's the name of the bloke you want to know about?"

"Tom Riddle."

* * *

**THE HERMIT**

_ 1981, 26th of November,  _

_ My dearest Patrick, _

_ I regret to inform you that mother has lied to both of us. London is not nearly as beautiful as Ireland. All the houses are atrocities made of concrete, and there are muggles everywhere. Diagon Alley is annoyingly bright and cheerful, but I suppose the atmosphere here in Knockturn Alley is a tad better, what with all the proper magic pulsing about—however the concrete atrocities are still here, and so is the shameful fashion sense of the '80s. A sense of fashion, brother, is what they do not have here, in this decade. I weep for the future generations. _

_ To write you this letter I must be forced to endure the vocallous crowds of people in the Alley—the defeat of the Dark Lord has made people mad with a desire for sunlight and open streets. I am currently holed up in the back of a tasteless shop with an even more tasteless name (who names any shop; Fereraday's Pets and Potions? Who gives their child such a name?) wasting away among the fools that come in here to buy books and snakes—the only 'pets' this accursed place has. The alternative was the filthy tables of the Leaky Cauldron, filled with muggle-rats and squibs, so this is but a slight improvement. _

_ I am not alone in my misery. Flaura, this lovely green snake with the black spots, is keeping me company; she is no more fond of the humans that I am. The Black brothers—Sirius and Regulus Black, some of the men most vocally against our cousin that insulted him relentlessly—visited this shop. They were looking for a snake, a specific one. They did not find what they were looking for. Sirius Black surprised me; a man that had been so ruthless and unkind to Severus during his trial, was most charming and pleasant. I suppose it should count in his favour. Our cousin did murder his fiancée's family—a confession most shocking to the people here, why, I cannot fathom; the Dark Mark on his arm could not have been any larger—Sirius Black would be less than any man if he did not demand revenge for it. _

_ Someone on the street recognized me from my face—some plump self-centered professor who said Severus was one of his brightest students—and gave me his condolences. He assumed our cousin's imprisonment in Azkaban has me upset. (It has not.) "Such a loss," he said. "Severus had a sharp mind." _

_ I cannot say that Severus' predicament has been a loss; it is a product of his own choices and actions, and we were never close with him anyway. Though I suppose the man's interest was purely academic. I fail to see what else Severus could be so good at, except for unpleasantness. Grandmother was right—that faithless muggle, Snape, that auntie Eileen got mixed up with, brought her nothing but pain and sorrow; his son is just like him, just as unpleasant and cruel (I told you I met with Severus before the trial). It is truly a blessing she is not still alive to see what has become of her love. _

_ London tires me. The magical community here is so ecstatic at the Dark Lord's defeat. I cannot wait to come back home—the end of the War has been cause for much contentment, but there is only so much jubilation I can stand before it gets sickening. I miss the green plains of Ennis, and mother, and my house, and you. Unfortunately, I have been invited to a wedding, (have you as well, I wonder?) and I don't believe I can miss it. The Black wedding has been the talk of all pureblood society for quite some time now. No family in their rights would miss it. I wish you can attend as well. Then it might not be so dreadful. _

_ With love, your sister, _

_ Erin Prince _

* * *

**THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE**

_ \- 26 th of November 1981, _

** _WITCH WEEKLY_ **

_ An excerpt from Lila Max's article "BACK IN BLACK; THE REVIVAL OF THE MOST ANCIENT AND NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK" for the Gossip Notes column _

_ … It would, of course, be a neglect to overlook the reconciliation of the Black Brothers when we mention _**_Sirius Black's_**_ refractory comeback into the spotlight. In the days leading up to his wedding, (that has been set for the 10 of December, main article, pg. 31) the dashing and_—_unfortunately_ _for us_—_no longer single _**_Sirius Black _**_has been seen with his younger brother on a list of occasions._**_ Regulus Black_**_, the well-proportioned younger heir of the Black family, has returned to the country after an extensive stay in France; only, it seems, to claim his brother's title as an eligible bachelor. His extended vacation has done wonders for his already striking but pale complexion._

_ The brothers were last seen together at  _ ** _Lucretia Prewett's_ ** _ birthday celebration last night, a party that most purebloods attended—and those who weren't invited probably had a good reason for taking offence! Among the guests were distinguishable personalities such as the famed author  _ ** _Gilderoy Lockhart_ ** _ —who attended despite his less than, social status—as well as the stunning  _ ** _Livia Parkinson_ ** _ and her brother,  _ ** _Augustus_ ** _ ; who, according to present sources, spent the entire evening enamored with the one and only  _ ** _Nicole Longbottom_ ** _ . In attendance, among other bachelors we have ours eyes set on, was the charming  _ ** _Sebastian Malfoy_ ** _ —however trustworthy sources reveal that this particular heir's eye has been caught by a french beauty;  _ ** _Natalie Trouché_ ** _ . _

_ Truly a woman of the spotlight,  _ ** _Alessa Clara Moore_ ** _ , looked absolutely gorgeous in her silk sapphire gown with the silver snake details—perhaps in honour of her fiancé?—among the sea of mostly green emblems! By her side at all times, her best mate  _ ** _Emmeline Vance_ ** _ , daughter of the prestigious, but tragically deceased scholar,  _ ** _Emmanuel Vance_ ** _ … _

_ (for Elacia Bulstrode's latest love interest more on pg. 29) _

* * *

**JUSTICE**

** _Cambridge Library of National Magical History_ **

_ Borrowing Books Information Sheet - latest loan made by; _

**Sirius Black - ** _ Sirius Black _

Home Address: London, Blackpool

Phone Number: 1253779096

Book title: _ 'Salazar Slytherin; a lineage through the ages, the complete history of the Slytherin line' _

Checked out: 27 th of November,  _ 1981 _

Expected back: 17 th  of October

Approved by

_ Jemma Weasley _

** _Cambridge Library of National Magical History_ **

* * *

**THE HANGED MAN**

** _28_ ** ** _th_ ** ** _ of November 1981, London, Little Hangleton_ **

"This place gives me the creeps," Regulus Black said, following his brother along the cemetery of Little Hangleton—that was the address they got from Livia, or rather the B&B's employee records. "And this is coming from  _ me. _ "

"Oh, hush, Reg," Sirius told him absentmindedly, looking around the graves in concentration. "We both grew up in Grimmauld Place. And if you remember clearly, I was the one who dragged you to explore the family catacombs under aunt Lysandra's manor in France."

"I know," Regulus said. "But there's still something about this place that doesn't sit well with me."

"Well, the Dark Magic here is off the charts, so if I had to wager a guess, that's probably it," Sirius told him. "Now focus. Where's the Riddles' grave?"

"Don't look at me, I can't see a bloody thing," Regulus complained. "Our witchlights don't have range for a couple of yards. And this cemetery is  _ huge.  _ Searching like this will take us hours."

"You come up with a new plan then, genius," Sirius snipped. 

"We could try a geo-coordination spell," Regulus said. "Or even computative string."

"You  _ really _ liked arithmancy, didn't you?" Sirius muttered. "Fine, we'll do that."

"C-string?" 

"No, the geo-coordination spell," Sirius said. "I really can't think up the algorithms c-string requires right now. Don't look so disappointed."

"I'm not," Regulus argued, frowning at the graves.

"You're pouting," Sirius pointed out. Regulus straightened his lips.

"Am not!" He protested. "I don't  _ pout _ ."

"Sure, Reggie," Sirius said, and even though he couldn't see him, Regulus could picture the smirk on his lips by the tilt in his voice. "Whatever you say. Don't tell me you weren't looking forward to releasing a yard of string and chasing after it like we did when we were children."

"Sod off," Regulus huffed. "Between the two of us, you're the immature one."

"If that implies you're the responsible one, I have an objection," Sirius told him, holding his right palm flat upwards, where his wand hovered, pointing to their left.

"Please," Regulus rolled his eyes, and almost tripped over a stone. "When have you ever been responsible?"

"I can be responsible!" his brother protested. "I just choose not to be. It's a conscious choice."

"It's really not," Regulus said. Sirius muttered something under his breath that he didn't quite catch, but considering it was french, it was nothing polite. "Fine. Why didn't  _ you _ think of the geo-coordination spell then?"

"I'm running on five hours of sleep and caffeine," Sirius defended. "Forgive me if my brain doesn't work at its best capacity right now."

"Excuses, excuses," Regulus imitated the sing-song tone Sirius had applied to that same phrase over the years.

"Says the bloke whose best excuse for declining mother's tea invitation this afternoon to chase after a horcrux was, and I quote; 'I have a healer's appointment'?"

"Shut up," Regulus muttered darkly, feeling heat rise to his cheeks despite himself. Regulus had always been an excellent liar, except for when he had to lie to his mother. And Sirius, who had apparently inherited their mother's ability of spotting lies from miles away. "You come up with something better to tell her."

"I did," Sirius said, none-too-modestly.

"Show off," Regulus mumbled, and focused on the graves to avoid his brother's grin. "How are we going to destroy the ring anyway?"

"What, like it's hard?" Sirius asked. "I've spent my whole life destroying stuff, relax. It's going to be fine."

"That's what you said last time," Regulus reminded him. "And we ended up in Albania, holding to a pair of bunny shoes and running for our lives across a haunted village on the mountain tops."

"Well, we're not in Albania this time, are we?" Sirius said. "Riddles—Found it! It's the one with the creepy angel statue, come on."

"The creepy angel statue?" Regulus asked cautiously, but followed after him without protest. " _ Great _ . At least I know what's bothering me about this bloody cemetery now."

"What?"

"I should have never let Clara make me watch  _ Doctor Who _ ."

Sirius laughed. "Weeping angels aren't real."

"You tell him that," Regulus muttered, looking warily at the statue out of the corner of his eye. "I don't think he got the part where he shouldn't exist at all."

"Come on, Reg. We have a ring to set on fire, and I have the perfect plan."

"If it's fiendfyre again—"

"No," Sirius said. A lull and then—"It's dark fire."

"Right," Regulus said dryly. "Because the  _ protego diabolica  _ is  _ so _ much better."

"It's the only that'll work in this place!" his brother defended. "It's not my fault Voldemort put anti-fiendfyre wards all over his old man's grave. Imagine how many people hated that bloke."

* * *

**DEATH**

** _\- 11th Century_ **

Once upon a time, there was a girl in a castle, whose mother never thought that she was enough. At first, the girl was angry that she wasn't thought to be smart enough to be her mother's daughter, and slowly over the years, she became resentful; for all the teasing she had to endure, and all the expectations she could never reach, and all the disappointment that burned behind judgemental eyes. The girl became weary of the expectations, and one day when all was too much, she stole her mother's magic diadem and run away.

The mother was so smart that no one could compare, and she loved two things most in the world; her magic diadem and her daughter, one more than the other—but not the daughter. She was prideful to arrogance, and distant to coldness, for she was always too busy teaching the young bright minds to spend time with her daughter. Only in memories, the mother was kind, and warm and safe; both in reality and in dreams so unearthly beautiful. Her hair were long and made of the ink that bled off the parchments from the papers she wrote, and her eyes were vibrantly grey like the sky during a storm, ready to howl. Her cheeks were sharp, like her words, and her skin pale and dressed in the phasma of the night sky, painted with stars.

Her diadem was as beautiful as she was, adorned with blue gems the colour of her soul and forged with iron that was cold to the touch, like she was. It was magical in a unique way, because it did not serve only as a beautiful crown on the brow, but it made all those who wore it wise beyond their years and beyond their minds and beyond the soul of the world. The mother treasured it, and kept it hidden, and she had only shown her daughter where it was, and no one else. It is said, that when the daughter run away and stole it, the mother's pride was such that she would not admit its theft, but continued as if she still had it, as it had never been lost.

(Did the mother see her daughter ever again, mummy?)

Well, dearest, the daughter never went back, but when her mother grew old and very ill, she sent out word to find her daughter and bring her back, so she could see her one last time. But the daughter did not want to go and she refused to, because she had made a life for her herself in a new land, away from all the past and all that dragged her down. She had found someone who loved her, and had a daughter of her own she loved very  _ very _ much; more than the stars and the moon and the sky and the soul of the worlds. Just as much as I love you, little one.

(I'd be really sad if I never got to see you again, mummy. I'd miss you  _ this _ much!)

I'd miss you very much as well, baby, but you'll remember how much I love you won't you? And you'll know that I would have done anything to be here with you, won't you?

(Yes, mummy. I promise. And I promise to keep  _ your _ diadem safe. I won't let it get stolen like the mother did!)

I know you will, darling, but first let's get you to sleep, ey? Sweet dreams, baby.

(Helena? Is she asleep? There's a man here looking for you.)

* * *

**TEMPERANCE**

_ 30/11/1981 _

_ Dear Diary, _

_ Leonard stood me up.  _ Again _ . I wasted an entire hour of my life waiting for that idiot at the Three Broomsticks, but he never showed. Thankfully, I had brought that transfiguration essay with me to finish—I know it's NEWTS, but must all of McGonagall's assignments be so bloody hard?—and I didn't look too pathetic. I suspect Madam Rosmeta noticed though, because she offered me a free butterbeer. _

_ As the second hour started to roll by, I had by then finished both my butterbeer and my essay, and sitting there I couldn't escape some of the other students' pitying glances. It was humiliating. I had half a mind to run out of there fast as my feet would carry me, but foolishly I kept believing he might show. Watching his mates come in (without Leo) and snicker at me from the corner was the last straw; with as much dignity as I could muster, I fled. _

_ And as if my face was not red enough and my eyes not already filled with tears, what does the universe do to me? Coming out of The Three Broomsticks I quite literally slammed into  _ **Declan. Fawley** _ . He caught me before I could fall, and steadied me, and then actually _ asked  _ me if I was alright. If  _ I  _ was! Like an idiot I had gone and slammed into him, and he was concerned about my wellbeing instead of his own!  _

_ I wanted to die, to beg the earth to swallow me whole where I stood. Thankfully, my papers did not make a mess of themselves on the floor, so I managed to stutter out an apology and flee the scene with minimal eye-contact with him or his mates. I planned to make it back to the castle before I could start sobbing, but it was not to be.  _

_ (Stupid,  _ stupid _ Prim, did you really think he would have showed? Leonard Matthews, you are a tosser, a coward and a LIAR! A no good, mingebag maggot chav!) _

_ Anyway, I would have found a perfectly fine place to go sob alone for a few minutes and regain my composure before going back to the castle to drown myself in the Belgium chocolates Denston sent me, but  _ ** _Declan Fawley_ ** _ of all people followed me to ask me if I was alright, because I looked upset. _

_ Declan. Fawley _ _ . Followed  _ me .  _ Asked  _ me _ if I was alright. (My first year at Hogwarts he might have been already in his fifth year, but no one in their right minds would fail to notice  _ him _ ; there was—still is—a reason he was in the Quidditch Team after all.) He even remembered me from the Slytherin common room!  _

_ I was speechless, of course, but mother always says that we must act as if nothing ever fazes us, otherwise we'll end up like the Weasley's, and nobody wants that. I'm proud to say I was composed and dignified, but I must have looked like a complete fool! Standing there, trying to save face with tears running down my cheeks; the humiliation! (All Leonard's fault of course, see if I ever bother looking at that bloody git ever again.) _

_ Declan was as handsome as ever; his light strawberry blonde curls shone against the sun and his eyes were such a beautiful shade of the sky's blue! The rest of him did not disappoint either—Merlin those muscles! Even under all the clothes!—and he was so sweet! He inquired about Leo and became angry with him on my behalf, and even bought me chocolates from Honeydukes to ease my sorrows!  _

_ And as if that one meeting wasn't odd enough, I run into the Black Brothers back at the castle today, coming out of the Room of Requirement. They looked like they ought not to have been there, but one does not go through Hogwarts with the Marauders without coming to know that this is one of Sirius Black's permanent expressions. Regulus Black even remembered me from these study sessions I did with Dorothea Greengrass. _

_ (Can you imagine it? Declan Fawley!) _

_ Yours,  _

_ Primrose Flint _

* * *

**THE DEVIL**

** _2_ ** ** _nd_ ** ** _ of December 1981 London, Grimmauld Place, Number 12_ **

The day of her husband's death anniversary was coming up, and Walburga Irma Black, neé Black, didn't feel anything. She didn't miss him, and she wasn't saddened, and she didn't dread it, but was aware that it was coming, and waited for it like it was another day in the week. 

When they were younger, marrying Orion was her idea, and it was purely a product of her goal to keep her portion in the fortune in the family. And also because apparently it was decided early on that Walburga had to be the one to rule the Ancient and Noble House of Black in this new era, since no one else seemed goddamn capable of it it. Lucretia was running around with that Prewett idiot, her useless brother had no intention of ever having children, and her other youngest brother was only ever interested in women and relaxing at a country estate with a bottle of brandy. Back then, Orion had been meek and weak-willed; Walburga remembered how they all—and especially Lucretia—exploited this to their advantage.

When they were married, at first, it was alright. Orion was still meek, and hated arguing with her, but he was a bit more responsible, a bit more in control. And then came Sirius, and then Regulus, and Orion had been proud; but not as proud as Walburga was to be the one to continue the Black line. But then came the late nights. And the drinks. And then her children made themselves scarce when he came back, and then Sirius was screaming.

It was unacceptable; not punishment—as a boy, Sirius made a lot of mistakes and punishment was vital in ensuring the heir would never grow up to be this sloppy. How else was he supposed to learn?—but hurting Sirius as a result of idiocy and low alcohol tolerance? Not in  _ her _ house. Walburga had made sure to put a stop to that; she couldn't confront Orion about it, but she regularly sent Sirius with her aunt and Alphard at the Black Market—keeping him away, but keeping him productive and ensuring his studies would continue without hitch.

_ That _ kind of treatment that Orion grew into was solely reserved for muggles and no good muggle-lover scum—another point both her sons seemed insistent on missing. Regulus was simply too much like his father was in his age; soft, malleable and reserved—for all his blind loyalty to the family—but at least he was proper and did everything that was expected of him, and did  _ not _ test Walburga's patience daily. But Sirius… she was not sure where it went wrong there. 

It wasn't her fault, that was for sure. Since his youngest years Sirius had been everything a heir had to be; magically powerful, proud, cold and calculative. Walburga admired that he was more like her than Orion; temperamental, sharply beautiful and with a hard, ruthless edge. He excelled in all his classes and the sort; she taught him herself, made sure he understood that losing and failure was not an option when you were a Black. She well-versed him in French and most foreign languages, in the family traditions, in history, science, literature, in the subjects he'd encounter at Hogwarts and in Dark Magic—even sent him to Cassiopeia to be taught that last one. They had given him everything and he turned out and became a _ liberal _ .

Maybe it was their leniency. Letting him continue his friendship with the Potter boy—not liberal enough to be blood-traitors but certainly a bad influence—that werewolf breed and the squib's son, but when they tried to scold him he fought back. Alphard had insisted it was a phase she shouldn't quell down—because otherwise it might stick—and that Sirius would grow out of it soon. Walburga wanted to curse her good for nothing brother; look what came out of  _ that _ ! Her son, her firstborn, cozying up to these… these  _ products _ of vile and dirtiness!

At least he was clearing his act now. Marrying properly, claiming the Wizengamot seat, getting rid of Dumbledore— _ someone  _ had to, and it was about bloody time—she was truly hoping that  _ awful _ liberal phase was over.

And he visited her more often now. Did not argue as much. It pleased her. This was how things were supposed to be between them; she was his mother, and it was high the little brat appreciated that.

He came by some days ago, looking for a book on Parselmouths and spells, an  _ acceptable _ choice of study. Sirius was a Black through and through; even when he enraged her and he shamed his name—their good name—it was something she had never been in denial about. Everything a Black should be. Now only if he wasn't so… open-minded about these good for nothing mudbloods, they would be getting somewhere.

Maybe Alphard was right. (She should hex him for that.  _ She _ was the one who was always right.)

* * *

**THE TOWER**

** _3_ ** ** _rd _ ** ** _of December 1981 _ **

_ SEERS AND PEERS; REINCARNATION AND THE GRAVITY OF THE SOUL, A STUDY THROUGH THE AGES _ _ , by Dr. Athena Slughorn, Professor at Oxford's ' _ ** _Artemisia Lufkin Public School of Magic'_ **

EXCERPT: of **_CHAPTER NINE_**_ (9), "THE DIMENSION OF THE SOUL FROM B.C. TO A.D.; THE ANCIENT LAWS OF MAGIC"_

_ ...The soul, the indestructible and immortal portion of magic inside the human body, has been of constant importance since the beginning of time. However, even this holy nature of our existence was not left out of experimentation, mainly during the ancient ages. In a list of all things beneficial this experimentation has given insight in, perhaps it would be best to start with the one thing that, through time, has not failed to horrify even the most devoted of Dark Wizards. _

_ The horcrux, undeniably the wickedest of magical inventions, as  _ Magick Moste Evile _ —a book on Dark Magic banned by the Wizarding Constitution of 1837—states, has its roots, as a lot of things do, in Ancient Greece, and it is rumoured that only one single book details its creation  _ (Secrets of the Darkest Art _ , by Owle Bullock, a book banned by the Warlock Council in the early 1200s). That creation can be attributed to Herpo the Foul, (greek: "Ἕρπων ὁ δεινός") according to his own notes ("Ἐμαυτοῦ ψυχής άθανασία", Β 7, 36c 7-21) discovered in the ruins of Ancient Athens, whose culture remains the pillar of civilization in both ancient and modern times. Herpo the Foul is one of the earliest known Dark Wizards (although the term itself is a modern application), a pioneer in the field of the Dark Arts, as well as one of rare recorded Parselmouths ("Βίος ἐμοῦ", A 9, 76a 3-12), to whom we attribute the creation of the first Basilisk ("Βίος ἐμοῦ", Δ 3, 90b 52-87) as well as that of the first horcrux. _

_ Through his studies in the Dark Arts, Herpo was able to acquire a great understanding of the nature of the soul ("Ἐμαυτοῦ ψυχής άθανασία", Β 7, 36c 89-103), and he was specifically interested in the ways murder affected it; a moral philosophical debate that was very popular in Ancient Athens in general. It was how he came to the conclusion that murder was the act of pure, unredeemable evil (a notion that today is still a subject for substantial debate), and armed with that certainty, he deliberately committed murder. The execution of this act had as a goal his own immortality—convinced that the act of murder would leave a physical imprint on his soul, Herpo used this crime to split a part of his soul, and with the aid of the Dark Arts seal it inside an object. That object, the host of his splintered soul, he named a 'horcrux'. ("Ἐμαυτοῦ ψυχής άθανασία", Β 7, 36c 104-399). Horcruxes are usually inanimate objects, since they are called upon to guard and host the piece of someone's soul, but an animate object—that is, to say, an alive organism, like an animal, or a person—could, in theory, be a horcrux host. However, this comes with certain risks, seeing as people are conscious and logical beings, and animals are alive and unpredictable in their actions. _

_ The soul, specifically all of it—undivided—is the center of the entity of Ancient Magic Culture, and many believe that tampering with it is to break the deepest and most fundamental laws of magic. It is the sense of self of the individual, residing inside the materialistic body, and more often than not serves as the memory, awareness, and individuality mindset; which is why it's supposed to remain intact and unharmed, as it is by nature. For this reason, horcruxes are especially hard to create, and in sequence even harder to destroy; they are designed to be durable and indestructible, and so, only very destructive magics and processes could truly destroy them. _

_ These processes include Basilisk poison that—unlike Basilisk blood—is lethal in all forms and designed to do nothing other than kill. Fiendfyre (otherwise known as Hungry Fire), the most destructive and unstable Dark Magic spell to date, is also a sure way of destroying a horcrux. However, fiendfyre is almost impossible to control by someone without apt knowledge of magic and its ways, or by someone inexperienced or not yet properly developed, and more often than not results in massive destruction. The Killing Curse ( _ Avada Kedavra _ ), one of the three Unforgivables, would surely sever the bond of a person or an animal with a horcrux. Other means of destroying horcruxes would include perilous methods of ... _

* * *

**THE STAR**

** _5_ ** ** _th_ ** ** _ of December 1981 Leicester, Liberty Road, Number 48_ **

"UNCLE SIRIUS!"

"Hey, squirt," Sirius said, ruffling the hair of the ten-year-old who latched herself at his knees. On Sirius' hip, Harry peered down at Nymphadora and her bright orange hair curiously.

"Nymphadora," Andromeda Tonks smiled at her daughter. "Let poor Sirius breathe."

"It's fine," Sirius dismissed her. "I am  _ very _ excited to see my favourite niece too." He grinned down at Dora, and she grinned back; two of her front teeth missing.

“Is that Harry?” Dora asked, looking up at Harry, who was in tun watching her with an assessing baby face. “Hi, Harry!” Dora smiled widely. “Can I play with him?”

“Sure, if Harry wants to,” Sirius said, rocking Harry gently in his arms and smiling at him. “What do you say, prongslet, you want to play with Dora?” Harry looked at Sirius, then back at Dora, then back at Sirius again, giving a tentative nod. Sirius grinned as Dora squealed, and set Harry down. “Watch out for him, yeah squirt?”

“Of course, uncle Sirius,” Dora nodded solemnly. “Come on, Harry, I have the  _ best _ toys to show you!” she said, extending a hand. Harry took it tentatively, carefully closing his small fist around Dora’s short fingers. 

“Be careful with him, Nymphadora,” Andromeda cautioned her daughter, but she was already walking away, Harry trotting obediently behind her. 

“Yes, mum,” Dora said, visibly rolling her eyes; at the caution? The use of her full name? With Dora one could never be sure.

“They’ll be fine,” Sirius shrugged, looking at Andromeda. “Harry can keep up with her just fine, and you know she’s careful and responsible when she wants to be.”

“See?” Dora called, picking her head from behind the wall at the corner she turned to go back to her bedroom. “Only uncle Sirius has some faith in me!” Sirius saluted Dora, and behind her Harry giggled at the motion. “No one appreciates me in this house!” Dora said again, with more drama than was necessary, and disappeared again, yelling as she went; “DAD, HARRY’S HERE! CAN WE PLAY WITH THE TRAIN?”

Andromeda sighed deeply. “I swear, she doesn’t get the dramatics from me.”

“As if,” Sirius snorts. “You, dear cousin, have a flair for the dramatics to rival mine. It runs in the family.”

Andromeda sent him a dark look and ventured on. “You had Harry’s scar removed, then?”

“Yeah,” Sirius grimaced. “The Boy-Who-Lived and his lightning-shaped scar were getting a little too much attention than a baby ought to. That way it’ll be easier for everyone to forget. Besides, who knows what kind of damage the scar could have caused in the long run.”

“Yeah,” Andromeda agreed, looking to where her daughter had disappeared. “Killing curses are nothing to be taken lightly. It’s a miracle Harry’s still alive as it is.”

* * *

**THE MOON**

_ \- 5 th of December 1981,  _

** _THE DAILY PROPHET_ **

_ An excerpt from Tabitha Wilger's article "ALBUS DUMBLEDORE: SLANDERED NATIONAL HERO OR OVER-APPRECIATED CHARLATAN?" _

_ … Following Severus Snape's trial and conviction of a lifelong imprisonment sentence in Azkaban, for the murder of Lord and Lady Moore as well as a number of others—both muggles and magic individuals—Alessa Clara Moore, the future Lady Black, has gradually unleashed a swarm of accusations against Albus Dumbledore, Chief Warlock and Headmaster of private school;  _ 'Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry'. _ The zenith of these seemingly offhand insults was reached yesterday afternoon, when Lady Moore filed legal charges against Mr. Dumbledore. _

_ In the case she's built against him, Ms. Moore uses well-rounded arguments to support her demand of his immediate removal from the position of Chief Warlock. She makes no mention to his status as Headmaster of Hogwarts, but at the same time urges the public to take into consideration his willingness to hire a terrorist in a position of power and responsibility over children.  _

_ "Albus Dumbledore's choice of hiring Severus Snape, a man allied with a terrorist organisation, as a teacher at Hogwarts—a private school funded by our very own vaults—should in itself be concerning," states Mr. Marcus Moore, 58, from London's finest Warlock bar;  _ 'The Dorian Grey's' _ . Lord Moore spares no kind words for his nephew's murderer. "Men such as Snape are a danger to the society we have worked so hard for, and should not be allowed anywhere near, much less teach, our children." _

_ Mr. Moore, easily one of the most influential men in Wizarding Great Britain and a highly respected member of the pureblood society, speaks largely in support of his niece's actions. "It has not been the first instance Albus Dumbledore has abused his positions of influence to secure outcomes that serve his own purposes and devices; for his so-called 'greater good'. Considering his age, his retirement from the political scene should have long come to pass. It is high time we entrusted young and fresh mind with the rule of this country." _

_ It is not yet known if the charges filed will be sufficient for a trial, but Ms. Moore's concerns will surely be addressed in Congress with all the seriousness they're due, assures Mr. Crouch, current Minister of Magic; even though his own position in the Ministry is threatened by the charges made against him by the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, for the alarming mishandling of Sirius Black's case, as well as his own son's lifelong imprisonment for affiliations with Death Eaters... _

* * *

**THE SUN**

** _6_ ** ** _th_ ** ** _ of December 1981, London, Phoenix Street, Number 27_ **

Sirius picked up his phone on the third ring, and Marlene McKinnon wasted no time on pleasantries.

"Did you read Xenophilius' article at the Quibbler?" she asked, and didn't wait for him to answer; the editor of the Quibbler, Xenophilius Lovegood, was Clara's cousin, and surely the paper has already reached their hands. "Listen to this; _ "SIRIUS - BLACK AS HE'S PAINTED? - Notorious murderer, or singing sensation?" _

Marlene couldn't stop herself from laughing at the title again. As if Sirius could ever be a famous singer. 

" _ Sirius Black, wrongfully sentenced to Azkaban for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and thirteen muggles has already been found innocent of the crimes. However, startling new evidence has come to light, that despite Black's arrest, he might not even have been present at the killings. In fact, says Doris Purkiss, of 18 Acanthia Way, little Norton, what a lot of people don't realise is that Sirius Black is a false name. _ " Marlene laughed again. "A false name! Can you  _ believe _ that? How does he come up with these?"

"But just wait," Dorcas yelled into the line from next to her, "it gets even better!"

" _ The man that people believe to be Sirius Black is actually Stubby Boardman, _ " Marlene continued, trying and failing to contain her giggles, " _ lead singer of the popular singing group the 'Hob Goblins' _ —popular! Who on earth thinks the  _ Hob Goblins  _ are a popular band?"

Sirius comments dryly over the phone, and Marlene snorts, faithfully continuing reading off the paper. " _ Mr. Boardman retired from the public life after being struck in the ear by a turnip at a concert in Little Norton Church Hall, nearly five years ago. Ms. Purkiss claims to have recognised him from the paper, and insists he could not have committed these crimes, because on the day in question he happened to be enjoying a romantic candlelit dinner with her. _ " 

Marlene had to stop reading to laugh again, and this time Sirius joined her from the other side of the line. "I'm going to pin this to my wall," she said between breaths. "I'll immortalise this piece of ingenious information. Xenophilius is  _ amazing _ , this is the best conspiracy theory he's published in a while. He's doing it on purpose, I'm telling you!"

"I cannot believe Doris Purkiss is a real person," Dorcas said.

"She's delusional is what she is," Marlene joked. "Unless Sirius has been holding out on us—have you? Yeah, I didn't think so. But the Quibbler is better than Skeeter's articles anyway _ — _ did you read her column at  _ Cosmos Magical _ about Imogen Carrow? It's straight up slander!"

* * *

**JUDGEMENT**

** _8_ ** ** _th_ ** ** _ of December 1981, Harlow, the Atticus Tower_ **

The very last person Ian Malfoy expected to find ringing his doorbell after supper was Sirius Black. Even more so, an out-of-breath Sirius Black, with unruly hair and flushed cheeks, dragging an equally unmade Regulus Black behind him.

His relationship with Sirius was always something to be defined; they had been merely acquaintances for a very long time, and then Narcissa’s engagement party happened—to its credit, it had been a  _ really  _ fun night—and then they went back to being sort of mates but not really. Ian had always enjoyed Sirius’ company; he made his views about his family’s ideology very vocal, and it was one of the things that made Ian more comfortable around him. There was always the possibility that the eldest Black heir might end up like Bellatrix Lestrange—the thought had always terrified Ian almost as much as the woman herself did.

Sirius’ revolt of the pureblood ideology—racism, really—made him even more pleasant to be around. He was, generally, very pleasant; he was inhumanly attractive for one, intelligent and daring and impossibly funny. Really, no wonder he had so many people interested in him. 

“Ian, hi!” Sirius said breathlessly, somehow colouring the statement with surprise, as if finding him inside his own house was unexpected. “This is going to sound really weird, but I need your help finding a snake. A very particular snake. It’s rather important.”

Ian could have said a lot of things. Like how the fact that he was a Parselmouth wasn’t going to be much help in locating a snake, only talking to it. Or like how it was still too early for this—he didn’t even have his brandy yet. Or like how it was none of his business.

“Critically so,” Regulus Black added. Regulus was someone Ian had never interacted much with; at parties he usually kept to himself, stood in the corner with some of his mates or stuck to Sirius like glue. He was quiet, but not weak—calculatedly quiet. Standing in the shadows, assessing the whole room, sizing up the guests as if they were opponents. In a way, Ian supposed, they were. “We think it might be roaming around in your garden,” Regulus continued.

“It’s a very smart snake,” Sirius added. “Very evil too. Possibly venomous.”

Ian blinked. Once. Twice. Three—

“On a scale of ‘I lost a bet’ to ‘the fate of Britain hangs in the balance’, how important are we talking about?” Ian asked finally. Sirius and Regulus shared a look. 

“Um, the third wizarding war?” Sirius said, but it ended sounding like a question. It was good enough for Ian, anyhow. Sirius was odd, sometimes, but not crazy. Crazy smart, if he was anything, but not bonkers. At least Ian didn't think so—he wasn't sure what his trust in Sirius amounted into; physical familiarity or lack thereof of any meaningful emotional connection.

“Fine,” Ian agreed. “But I get to know at least half of the details.”

Sirius grinned; the same grin that had Ian’s face flushing all these years ago at Narcissa’s engagement party. The butterflies were missing this time, but Ian could still appreciate the sharp beauty of his face. (Which he shouldn’t. Probably.)

“Cross my heart,” Sirius promised. “You should probably know her name is Nagini and she was Lord Voldemort's pet. We have to kill her.”

Ian blinked. All things considered, his Saturday could have been worse. For instance, his mother could have decided to come to visit. Best not be here if she did. 

"Let's start looking, then."

* * *

**THE WORLD**

** _8_ ** ** _th_ ** ** _ of December 1981, Blackpool, the Black Manor_ **

Harry Potter was not like most one and a few months year-olds. For one, at the ripe age of one, he had already defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort—who was terrorising Britain for years—branding him with the very creative name: The Boy Who Lived.

Of course, Harry wasn't able to grasp the gravity of the title just yet; that was going to take a few more years. What Harry  _ could _ , however, understand was the fact that mummy and daddy weren't around. Their absence was confusing and saddening, but for now, still not that concerning.

Living with the blonde woman who insisted on calling herself 'Aunt Petunia' was a slightly terrifying experience. She was a very unpleasant woman; she never gave him cookies and sneaked him food like daddy does; instead she barely remembered to give him any. And she never gave him hugs and kisses and bright smiles like mummy does; she wanted to be around him as little as possible. Harry had been delighted when Moo'y came to take him back—he didn't like Aunt Petunia much, he had decided. She was distant and she made him cry, and her son, Dudley, was fat and loud and always angry at him.

Living with Foo and Moo'y and Lara was much better. Lara was nice and happy, like mummy, and she always gave him hugs and kisses, and told him how much she loved him. Harry loved Foo; he always made daddy happy when he came around, and he laughed loudly and made Harry smile. He was sadder now, and Harry didn't see much of him the last days—but Foo always spend time with him when he was here. And Moo'y was home more often than all of them, and read Harry stories like mummy did, and baked him cookies!

"Can I just retire already?" Foo was asking Lara, as he plopped himself down on her lap in the other sofa (the one that was further from where Harry was playing) and she laughed.

"Retire from what?" she asked in a happy voice. "You aren't doing anything right now—you're on leave." She was playing with his hair the way mummy does with him when she wants to make him sleepy.

"You know what I mean," Foo mutters gloomily.

"We won," Lara said simply. "You killed him, Sirius. He's not coming back."

"Yeah," Foo agreed absently. "Yeah, it's over."

"Good," Lara nodded. "Now you're _ finally _ going to help me with the wedding planning."

"I have been helping!" Foo protested indignantly.

"Not enough," Lara said. "Need I remind you there are  _ two _ weddings?"

"It was your idea," Foo mumbled. Lara gave him The Glare, and he quickly backtracked. "Fine, fine, what do you need help with?"

"Managing your family mostly."

"Ah, that would be the day," Foo sighed, and then turned to him. "Hey, Harry, buddy, come here."

Harry grinned, and run over to the sofa when Foo opened his arms for a hug. He jumped into them—a bit clumsily, since Foo was still laying on Lara's lap—and buried his face in the crook of his shoulder.

"Missed me?" Foo asked. "I missed you too, Prongslet. But I'm home now."

"Home sounds good," Lara said softly.


End file.
